The Music of Life
by Din's Rage
Summary: The Tenets have been abandoned & the Dark Brotherhood is but a shadow of its former self. Only one can open the doors to the Void and let Sithis' darkness seep out & strengthen the Family. The Listener for the Night Mother. But jealousy and envy can be cruel & when left to fester, like the ages past, treachery is sown & others will suffer the consequences for selfish actions.
1. Prologue

**My first Skyrim fic, of course DB-orientated. I've only really just started this & if it goes no where, it goes no where. I am however, liking it so far - Lucien's an uber awesome character to write. So anyway, yeah, if I think that this fic's for nought I won't go on with it - simple as. Although this could actually pass for a one-shot, so, win-win, innit? Ha, please review & lemme' know what you think, thanks.**

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Prologue: Marked for Death

†

Soundless sleep, the tell-tale sign that one is at peace with themselves. Yes, yes; that is the saying, one who sleeps without being wakened by their guilt, by their shame, is perfect for me. I have searched far and wide from Bravil to Bruma seeking _this_ one. My hands feel steady, wrapped in a second skin of soft deceitful leather, black as night and as supple as a woman's flesh. Between my skilled fingers is a steel knife, not ordinary steel of course for how could I cut the soul from the lion's share with a glorified butter knife? The Blade of Woe rests in my hand, deadly and plain; dark rippling metal with a deadly curve and a wicked cutting edge. It is an instrument of the Void, a force that I wield with such subtlety, I must always be..._subtle_.

I hear a stirring and my head rises from my own ponderings. From behind the thick blackness of my warm velvet hood I see them awaken from their peaceful sleep. It is safe here for us – I have checked. We may conduct our business without fear of prosecution here, but we must never think ourselves _truly_ safe. True security lays only in womb of our Mother and after that our Sanctuary and then even after that, the eternal and yawning Void of our Father. A soft groan and a sleepy grunt escape tired lips. They are never what you expect, no, it is always the ones you least expect to be capable of such morbid atrocities. I am Speaker, though; and I shall speak to this one, and they must listen.

"You sleep rather soundly for a murderer,"

I begin and I see that they are surprised to see me in their room. At such an intimate distance I could do so much. So much indeed, but I curb my teasing nature and caress the ancient blade in my hand. Flicking my calculating gaze up, I can see now a _killer_ before me,

"That is good, you will need a clear conscience for what I am about to propose."

This one eyes me suspiciously, like an untamed alley cat. I smile lazily at this; I am old enough and have been serving darker beings for as long as I can remember to be surprised by their unwillingness. I have met many people and ended as many as I've met, most _straight_ after I'd met them. This one has fire though, a hunger for darkness; so much so that I can feel the Lucky Lady rolling the dice and determining this one's fate utterly personally. I get up, unfolding my long legs, I have been sitting watching and waiting for so long;

"Then you prefer _silence_ then? As do I, my dear child. Our arts lie in listening, seeing and acting."

I hear myself chuckle at this pantomime, the one on the bed simply watches me, and waits. Is it fear, obedience or curiosity keeping this one locked to the bed? I think it is a good deal of all of them, but I sense more curiosity than anything else. Why, I think I may even grow to like this silent glarer, so I saunter over to the bed now, closing the distance between us and kneel before the bed. Gazing up at this ambitious young thing, I say sincerely,

"I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood."

There is a brief, such a tiny flash in their eyes. The mayfly has ensnared the cod and now I have them in my soft, leather grasp. Will I choke or embrace?

"My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother."

Our Lady's name bears weight amongst the superstitious and foolish, but I know for her existence to be true. She is real, death's cruel woman and to doubt her _is_ foolishness indeed. She is our Mother, and I am the one to speak for her although I never hear her.

"She's been watching you."

I assure the gleaming eyes blazing at me on the bed,

"Observing you as you kill, admiring you as you end life without pity or remorse."

I sheathe the Blade of Woe to show my sincerity. Those eyes follow my every move, calculation, manoeuvring and stealth; they have it all and I know Mother has chosen well.

"The Night Mother is _most_ pleased."

There is hesitation there too – I can see it. I have been reading faces for a very long time, fear, love, jealousy and envy; all can be gleaned from one with such eyes as this one. It is a little vulnerable, I'll admit, but such talent should not be passed up, regardless of those two shortcomings embedded in the skull. Offering a gloved hand, they take it. I grin, my charming oftentimes troublesome grin,

"That is why I come to you now. I bear an offering, an opportunity...to join our rather _unique_ family."

There is a break in my thoughts. This is not my time, for mine has passed. The one I sought out slips away and so do I. Engulfed by a blackness so dark it blots out everything utterly. I scream in my fury as I am snatched back to serve my Father. I can see no one here; it is so very quiet and empty. There is relief though, the comfort of Mother's embrace as she holds me, a child of Sithis. For the first time I hear her voice,

Her rasps which bring me serenity like death's ululations reverberating throughout this black purgatory. She tells me that I will live again; tied to yet another in their life as _that_ one was tied to my end. I accept Mother's promises and she beckons me sleep now. Closing my eyes I feel the Void closing in around me, and Mother's arms enfold me. It is so silent, so _deathly_ quiet. And then I hear it;

"What is the music of life?"

A shadowy riddle uttered in the black. Come on, I think. You know this! But it is not me who is answering my Brother's game, no, I am not here. I hear a voice, unfamiliar but completely familiar at the same time. Strange, I know. Mother seems anxious for _this_ one; I can feel her bones warming and Father's will ebb. We all watch, all of us; we wait until we hear the answer to the children's game,

"Silence, my brother."

Light floods in through the cracks of darkness, I feel life surge through me again; although I cannot yet break through. I feel Mother smile and I hear our Father's dreadful mirth, he is pleased with events. Something is happening, the wheel is turning and Mother promises me that soon I will be long for the world again.


	2. Shadows & Shrouds

Chapter 1

Shadows & Shrouds

†

A heavy rainfall cascaded down from the heavens and pattered relentlessly on the small and glum town of Falkreath. 'Town' is merely the polite word one would use to describe Falkreath, in truth it was more of a settlement, nestled in amongst the lush greenery of the forest that grew around it. Thunder rumbled ominously in the North and flashes of lightning lit up the grey sky which was filled with fat clouds, swollen with more rain. The ground was slick with mud, churned by hooves and heels alike making for a perilous journey outside – the constant threat of slipping hung heavily. Little flickers of light could be seen around Falkreath's tallish wooden walls, the guards in their dark blue armour making them almost invisible in the gloom save for the torches they held in their hands.

From the road a young Breton girl trod towards them, her dark cloak was travel worn and torn. Her brown jerkin and breeches were a little worse for wear too. The two guards manning the gate eyed her suspiciously as she approached. As she drew nearer they could see her features, a round face that was splattered with mud, red war paint decorated her face, not dominating it, though; a simple line extended from her hairline to her left straight eyebrow which broke there and then resumed down her cheek. She looked like a one of the Reachmen, more commonly known as the Forsworn, but her eyes were soft, not savage and a vivid shade of green, dark, like the leaves of summer.

At her hip hung a curious sight, not an ordinary blade; but a curved sword. A curved sword? A smooth and handsome curved blade ran down the length of her right leg, so shiny it was almost like a mirror. The pommel was of rich gold – equally as shiny and bright as the silver. On her feet was a pair of fine black leather boots – also vandalised by mud. Her hair was mousy brown pulled back at the sides in a fine little braid that hung down the back past the true length of her hair. She was an oddity, out alone in the wilderness and if she'd travelled down to Falkreath from the Reach then she had travelled far indeed.

"Halt."

Said one of the guards, holding up a hand to bar her passage in the driving rain; she stopped smoothly and gracefully before them.

"What is your business here in Falkreath Hold, outsider?"

It was difficult to hear his voice because of the rain and his thick Nord accent. He watched as she shrugged her thin shoulders and said back loudly so that he could hear,

"I'm a traveller simply passing through, please; I seek only food and lodgings for the night."

She had a fine voice, one that did not befit her mousy appearance. It was clear and cutting, like a silver bell. The guard looked to his fellow guardsman – who shrugged and nodded.

"Keep your nose clean while you are here, outsider, and don't venture outside the walls. Falkreath Hold is a dangerous place."

She nodded her head and ducked past him. Although the rain was driving and deafening, her ears pricked up a little when she heard the guard say to his partner,

"Did you hear? Been a murder over in Riften, some old lady who ran the orphanage; gods, those children must be heartbroken."

†

Valga Vinicia was busy wiping down the bar when she heard the door swing open. It's creak betraying the perpetrator. Glancing up, she smiled warmly and harkened,

"Welcome to Dead Man's Drink, I'm Valga – the innkeeper – what can I get you?"

The guest was a Breton girl; Valga could tell by her stature and rounded face. Yes, too short for a Nord, cheekbones too round to be an Imperial and she was too pale in the complexion to be a Redguard. A pretty thing, although her nose was a little on the stub side, wide and long – unusual, most Breton's had slim and lithe noses. Her lips were very full, though, which was common among the exotic looking Breton race. Valga watched as she picked her way through the empty inn, her keen gaze looking from place to place before she finally slipped onto a stool at the bar. Placing her hands on the bar, Valga eyed her newest patron,

"So, what can I get ya'?"

She asked again and the Breton looked up at her and smiled thinly,

"Some wine – Alto - if you have any. And some salmon steak – I'm famished – and the road has been long and hard."

"I'll bet, Skyrim's awful dangerous these days – I can tell you!"

Said Valga as she reached below the bar and produced a green bottle of Alto wine; popping the cork, she poured the white liquid from its bottle into a tankard and slid it over to the Breton girl who drank deeply and eagerly and Valga turned and began to prepare the guest's meal.

The Breton's fish lay cooking on the grill when Valga leaned over the counter and chattered politely,

"Are you from Markarth? Or anywhere in the Reach?"

The girl shook her head; her eyes were downcast in her tankard while she waited for her food. Valga watched as she peeped up and said in a clear voice,

"No, I am a Breton from High Rock. I've been travelling all across Tamriel,"

Valga nodded and turned to check the fish. She asked over her shoulder,

"You'll be movin' on down to Cyrodiil then? That's what lies at the end of the road through Falkreath."

Again the Breton shook her head,

"No, not quite yet; Skyrim's an interesting land and I still have much to see here."

"Dunno' why you came to Falkreath then, traveller. All there is to see of any merit is the graveyard."

To Valga's surprise when she turned back around, the Breton was smiling most unnervingly,

"That is exactly so."

Was all she said in response and sipped at her wine; placing the half-empty tankard down, she asked,

"What is the obsession Falkreath has with...morbid things, if I may hazard a question?"

At that, Valga exhaled a breath and her eyes widened before she leaned on the bar and began,

"Well, it all starts with the graveyard – I know that much. There have been many bloody fights here in Falkreath and the Nords revere their honoured dead, so a lot of them wished to be buried here next to their warrior ancestors. Many make pilgrimages here to receive the blessing of Arkay – the god of life and death."

The Breton girl nodded, taking in the information as Valga went on with a shrug,

"But, if you're talking about the name of the Inn and the shops around Falkreath, I think it's become more of a running joke now. Although...There have been bloody misdoings lately,"

The Breton's green eyes narrowed as Valga's eyes slipped down and she muttered under her breath,

"Tragic misdoings, really..."

"Oh aye?"

Said the Breton, one of her brown eyebrows raised as she did and Valga nodded – there was sadness in her voice,

"There was a murder not too long ago. Little Lavinia, Mathies and Indara's girl, she was torn apart by Sinding. Apparently there was not even enough of her found to bury – the poor souls, I can't imagine what that must be like for Indara and Mathias."

The Breton's face was thoughtful as she stared blankly at the wooden bar,

"That's awful,"

She agreed with a nod and Valga dipped her head too. They were shaken from their thoughts when the fish began to sizzle loudly. With a start Valga turned and flipped the tender meat over and turned back to the Breton. Jerking a thumb over her shoulder, she motioned to the fish,

"That shouldn't be too long now."

The Breton nodded with a small smile as Valga asked curiously,

"Are you here to visit the graveyard?"

"Yes, I think I'll have a look. I have heard that it is the biggest in all of Skyrim."

Valga nodded her ascension and laughed,

"It is that! The damn thing takes up half the town. Everyone from Falkreath has _at least_ one ancestor in there."

The Breton sipped the last of her wine and chuckled darkly,

"Well, let us hope that it does not get any bigger."

†

The rain did not abate, it just fell and fell and fell. It was a brave man who'd travel along the moonlit trail that the wolf had left behind. She sniffed the air; wet and earthy, yes, Falkreath just seemed _right_. The wolf-man had torn the babe asunder here, so the father, Mathias, had told her; judging by the flecks of torn flesh dotted all over the scene and the smell of blood, she'd agree. There was no forgetting the smell of blood, fresh or foul, young or old. It was a scent that stuck with you.

Bending to her heels, her cloak becoming submerged in the running mud as she did; she felt the wet earth; _Arkay's_ presence was very strong in Falkreath, as was the Huntsman's by the looks of things. This had nothing to do with her in any case, the chained and barred wolf-man could not control his urge, which was his folly and his alone – it was just an unfortunate event that the girl looked to be such good sport. Getting to her feet, she eyed the clearing,

"_In Falkreath Hold, just under the road, there is a door. Speak the passphrase and the door will open,"_

Blinking away rainwater, she sighed. She would need to get back _on_ the road to get under it, but her curiosity for Sinding's plight had overrun her initial task.

"_I'll see you at home."_

Slipping her hand into her pocket, she felt Sinding's cursed ring. She'd thrown it away only to find it in her pocket the next day. She even tried putting it in a chest in Dead Man's Drink and leaving it there, but it found its way back into her pocket. Then, finally, she had given it to Valga – told the Imperial innkeeper it was a parting gift. Still, an hour later on the road; the ring was mysteriously in her pocket. Such a strange thing, but she was nothing if not interested in the Arcane, so of course she was curiously puzzled by Sinding's ring. Or should she say, Hircine's ring?

Either way, she decided to not think about it for the time being and try and find her way _home_. But where was that exactly? Why, under the road of course. Easier said than found, it would seem. She walked along the slippery road for nigh two hours before her green eyes found a little opening, an arch that lead underneath the road. She flicked a look behind her, there was no one, save for her own shadow and then with a nod to herself, slipped under the road and down a narrow little path. At the bottom of the path she saw a little black pond, stepping closer she bent down to investigate its secrets.

That was no ordinary water she concluded. It was too dark and thicker than any water she'd ever seen. Looking up, the sky was raining down water on her without relent. The tall evergreens reaching high into the heavens like long, sharp black fingers. The gloom was so that all colour seemed to be stripped from the forest, replaced by greys and blacks. She returned her attention to the small pond and dipped her long white fingers in it. It was strange; it felt like she was touching smoke. Literally _feeling_ smoke, yanking back her hand to inspect; she breathed a sigh of relief when her skin remained un-mutilated by the dark waters.

She heard a noise to her left, it sounded faintly of the roaring of a dragon. Without hesitation, she drew her scimitar and bounded into the thick foliage surrounding the water. She didn't dare to breathe until it dawned on her that the sound was so faint that the dragon would be leagues from where she was. Sheathing her sword, she peeked out of the dripping bushes and stepped out. She heard the sound again and cast her inquisitive gaze around the path and clearing; and then she saw it. Her blood ran cold at the sight, but she was so drawn to it that she could barely stop her feet taking the steps forward towards it. A black door glowed before her, embossed with the carvings of a skull, a woman and four children. The big skull's brow gleamed bright red and cast a rosy hue over her face.

Finally, she had found it and finally she was home. Placing a hand on the door she felt the door come alive and the stone began to breathe as the noise like the roaring of a furious dragon grew louder and louder. Whether it was in her ears or literally, she knew not; but her eyes were locked with the black spaces that should have been filled with eyes on the skull. It was _looking_ at her.

_He_ was judging her.

"What is the music of life?"

It hissed in a voice that sounded like the grinding of stone. The voice must have come from the door but she cast a look behind her just to make sure. There was no one there and she could feel this dark guardian becoming impatient with her hesitation,

"_**What**__ is the music of life?!"_

_He_ spat again, this time she was sure the voice was inside her head. Her eyes were closed, he knew that she did not fear him, rather, trusted him utterly. She only feared his wrath of her failings, not for wasting his time. Licking her dry lips, she opened her dark emerald eyes and said in a deep and rueful voice that was filled with authority and a sense of belonging,

"Silence, my brother."

There was a moment of deliberation on the door's part and for a split second she felt _Him_ smile darkly down on her from the shadow of the Void, and then with a welcoming wave of his hand, he showed her in and whispered almost affectionately; _almost_,

"Welcome home."


End file.
